


Healing Magic

by incenseandteacups



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, slave!Fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5296574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incenseandteacups/pseuds/incenseandteacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hawke abandoned him after he destroyed the Chantry, Anders fled Kirkwall and took up residence in Tevinter. Two years later, something happens that threatens to destroy the mage's life again. He somehow comes into custody of Fenris, who was returned to Danarius years ago, his memories gone and a slave once more. Anders begins the struggle to return Fenris to who he was, and restoring himself to who he could have been, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All I Wanted Were Some Fucking Pastries

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, I don't hate Hawke - I was just so heartbroken when I found out you could give Fenris back to Danarius, I decided I immediately needed to write a fic about it.

It had been nearly two years. 

Anders still hated the fucking Tevinter Imperium.  
It wasn’t a full month after he arrived that he’d begun turning his hovel of a home into a makeshift clinic, the first patient an elven slave – anywhere between her teens and her thirties, it was always so hard to tell with elves. She’d been thrown from a magister’s carriage as it passed, covered in gashes and nearly drained of blood, too close to death to bother healing. 

To anyone but the soft-hearted mage, of course. He’d spent the next three days laboring over her, taking minute-long breaks to regain the barest amount of mana necessary to keep her heart beating. His last sovereign went with her as well, to buy her passage from this hellish place.  
Apparently, she’d spread the word; a mage who was kind, a healer, and suddenly his small, one-room home was crowded with poor, some slaves, some simply those that had no magic and weren’t nobles. Free healing was popular, it seemed.  
Now, he traveled to his regular market, an entire sovereign scraped together from donations to spend on medical supplies, perhaps some bread if he could manage it. He’d become better at ignoring the injustice he knew he couldn’t stop – and blocking out Justice’s cacophony of protests. He politely took his usual bag of medicines and bandages from a friendly merchant. Nearly free, since he’d healed the man’s nephew from a jaw broken so severely he would have died of starvation, unable to eat. 

He was delighted; he had money for food! Perhaps he’d treat himself to something. His mind roamed the pastries of the nearby baker, the warm scent taunting him. It was near enough that in the morning, when the fresh bread was being baked, his home filled with the smell. It drove him nearly mad. 

If he focused on the small things – healing every broken bone that came his way, the delight of having a little extra to spend on sweets – it became easier to forget the tragedies that had occurred, what felt like so recently. Justice had calmed since then, and his own rage was quelled with sorrow. He still couldn’t be sure what of his actions were his own, from that time, and he’d decided long ago he didn’t want to know. 

Distastefully, a slave auction was being held just across the street from his bakery. He wouldn’t make the mistake of looking, or listening-  
“This one goes for a sovereign! He might not look much, but there’s a fortune in ‘im, you might as well be stealing from us!” A thud sounded, and Anders betrayed every rule in his surviving-Tevinter-with-your-neck-intact guide by turning and sparing the crowd a glance. 

As expected, he greatly wished he hadn’t. 

Silver lines etched skin that was splotched with purple and red, a face that was eerily blank, with the same proud lips and arched brows. The anger that had contorted that face when Ander’s knew it was currently replaced with pain, kneeling in the muddy cobbles with one leg that twisted sickeningly, an arm that was swollen and likely fractured, bruises covering the skin. 

Well. Fenris looked like shit, and almost more disappointingly, he knew his almost-full sovereign was no longer going to be spent on sweets. 

He’d almost forgotten about Fenris, the elf that Hawke had never quite liked, the one that he’d returned to his master. His stomach curled at the memory of his reaction when Hawke told him in his clinic the next day – he’d crowed, laughed, kissed Hawke with a smirk on his face. 

His own betrayal came later, when Hawke decided that he wasn’t worth keeping around after destroying the Chantry. His heart had broken, his soul, and Justice was the only thing that kept him alive long enough to reach Tevinter. He grew to feel horrible shame for his actions then. Shame that was returning full-blast as he struggled hurriedly through the crowd. Shockingly enough, no one was bidding for a slave that looked too broken to fix; they must not have been mages, or they would recognize the lyrium in his skin for the treasure it was. 

The man ‘nudged’ Fenris – kicking him in the ribs, hissing between his teeth, “Get up!” and Anders’ expression hardened. Fenris was barely conscious – kicking him wouldn’t help that. Of course, trying to talk sense into any of these blighted idiots was hopeless. 

“Here! Not a full sovereign, but it’s more than you’ll get for him otherwise.” Anders shoved his money towards the auctioneer, who called a few times before sighing and tucking it away. He pulled Fenris roughly to his feet, shoving him into the mage’s arms with a disgruntled mutter – it seemed he wasn’t used to getting so little for his…wares. There would have been more fuss, but this wasn’t exactly an official auction – held on the side of the road, with slaves that hardly looked better than Fenris. 

The trip home was fun. Short, and he supposed it was easier than if Fenris had been a human. He was heavy for an elf, but still lighter than Anders himself, and the healer managed to drag him to his shack. He closed the door – if anyone was in dire enough need, they’d come in anyway, but hopefully that would keep most of them out – and spread a now fully-unconscious Fenris out on the blood-stained mattress he used as a bed. 

Now. To get to work. 

He began by assessing the elf’s general condition, spreading hands that emanated a soft glow over his torso. Two broken ribs. Bruised lung. Several other, more minor injuries, but the one he was most concerned with was the damage the ribs might have done. 

After an hour-long healing session, he was drained of mana and had gotten Fenris stable. He would have been worth more, if any of these bloody Tevinters bothered to learn magic that could actually be used for good. Perhaps it was a punishment from Danarius; perhaps he wasn’t supposed to survive. The last he remembered of the cruel magister, he’d sent Hawke a letter. He couldn’t remember the contents of it, his mind swirling with thoughts that were neither his nor Justice’s. 

He started when he realized that Fenris’s eyes were open, staring straight ahead as though he were entranced. But he was clearly cognitive; why was he making that face? Why wasn’t he looking at Anders? The mage almost missed the familiar scowl that he saw no sign of, the derisive, sneering tone, anything familiar from his time in Kirkwall. 

But Fenris simply stared, and finally Anders decided he would be the one to break the silence. “It’s…been awhile, Fenris.”

The elf didn’t respond, other than the slight tensing, a swallow moving his jugular up that long throat. “Fenris? Are you alright? Sit up.” Perhaps the damage was worse than he’d been able to sense? He shouldn’t have anything more severe than a few bruises and cuts, at this point. 

The elf did so, quickly enough that Anders nearly stumbled back. “Maker, Fenris! And I was actually worried for you, for a moment there.” He stumbled over the words, a nervous laugh forcing its way out of his throat. 

Fenris’s eyes flitted towards him, not going any higher than his chest before he fell to his floor, onto his knees. Words left his mouth, his tone strange and not sounding like…Fenris, at all, a quiet, pleading whisper. 

“I apologize, Domine.”


	2. Wildflowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Danarius sends Hawke a letter in the event that Fenris was returned to him.

_**Hawke,** _

_**Many thanks for the kind return of my property. Fenris is his usual compliant self now that his memories have been once again removed. Not a simple process, but considering the investment, I consider it very much worthwhile.** _

_**As promised, I'm enclosing a little gift from the storehouses of the Arcanist Hall in Minrathous. Should you ever find yourself in the Imperium, do feel free to visit. I'll provide a tour of the Hall myself, if you like.** _

_**Danarius** _

Fenris knew he deserved to be cast out, but the pain of it was still worse than anything physical. His dominus had been kind to him, despite his occasional outbursts of disobedience. Up until recently, it had been nothing worse than hesitating to answer, or giving his dominus an insolent look when he was particularly upset. He didn’t know what brought these episodes on.

All he knew was that he’d found himself standing before his master, a sword pressed against the magister’s neck. Blood beading where the steel met skin; he had actually harmed his dominus. He remembered the way the blade clattered to the floor, the way he fell to his knees with the sickening knowledge that disrespect this severe could never be forgiven, even by his kind dominus.

His next moments, an eternity and yet lasting no longer than a blink, it felt, were of nothing but pain. His very blood seemed to boil within his veins, and he felt blow after blow rain down on him. He was tossed into a wooden cart, still as a corpse.

Perhaps he was supposed to be one.

It was only when the blinding agony in his leg began that he stirred, the man pulling him from the cart blinking in surprise. Fenris clung to consciousness, slumping onto the ground as he was pulled the rest of the way out. “Boys, we’ve got a living one! Drop him with the auctioneer by the main road, I hear he can usually get a few sovereigns for wretches like these.“

A wretch. Was that all he was? Even as he slipped from wakefulness again, he felt body-deep shame fill him. What use was he? Nothing but a slave that was ungrateful to his master. Worth no more than a cheap sell at an unofficial auction. 

And then he fell into darkness again, the rough hands that gripped him seeming as light as feathers. 

_Domine’s embrace had been…Fenris dared not say unpleasant, but it had caused him pain. Something had upset his dominus, he could tell, and no matter how meekly he behaved in an attempt to soothe his anger, he saw the quiet rage that burned within the magister._

_He lay in his domine’s lavish bed, graciously allowed a small amount of time to recover. He was exhausted, the tang of copper filling the air and fabrics around him. Half-dead as he was, he somehow managed to hear the quiet slide of his domine’s voice in the hall._

_“He has become…different, since he returned. I want you to check…” The rest he could not hear as his master moved farther away, but the elf’s ears twitched with unbidden concern, bordering on fear._

_Returned? Returned from where? He knew there were gaps in his memory, remembered that first day - a blank slate, he’d felt like, but he somehow knew that he was to serve his dominus, had felt the rightness of it in all of him. What was…before that? How was he supposed to behave towards his dominus? He thought he’d been doing everything right, but perhaps…this could explain domine’s anger._

Fenris awoke with another jab of pain, forced to the ground in front of a crowd that booed and screamed profanities. A cheap auction, for commoners that had no magic of their own and so turned to the already-enchanted slaves that were damaged and worthless. 

He fought waves of nausea as he knelt, jabs of pain in his torso felt with every movement. Vomiting, as humiliating as it would be, would also be excruciatingly painful. 

Nobody was bidding for him. He wondered how he appeared, to them - his master often told him that he was mostly worthless, aside from the fortune of lyrium in his skin. A fortune he could easily afford to toss away, of course; his loving domine had constantly reminded him, that he was the one who cared about Fenris most of all.  
He’d spurned that care and graciousness. 

Finally, at the same time another blow to his ribs left him gasping mutely as the air left his lungs, someone spoke. 

“Here! It’s not a full sovereign, but it’s more than you’ll get for him otherwise.” 

There was a rustling sound above him, and then he was hauled up by the nape of his neck - his shirt fallen away into tatters, by now - and shoved into someone’s arms. His face fell heavily into a warm body, feathers pressing into his cheek. A mage, he could tell - the lyrium in him tingled at the presence of magic. 

He smelled like wildflowers. 

_“What shall it be, Fenris? Will you throw your life away?”_

_A pause, heavy with grief that simply couldn’t be shown through words._

_“No. I will go with you.”_

A weight pressed onto the mattress beside him, a rush of magic in his blood. His pain was…greatly diminished, if not gone. Slowly, warily, he opened his eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the room he was in. 

A hovel, walls stained and splintered. The straw mattress he lay on was stained with blood and even less pleasant substances, he could tell by the smell alone.  
A mage leaned over him, soft, cold hands sliding over his bare torso, easing the agony with small bursts of magic. He could sense that this man was his new dominus, as…disheveled, as he was. Unshaven, with hair that was pulled into a messy ponytail. 

He looked nothing like a magister. But Fenris recognized powerful magic when he saw it, and if he was to have a new dominus, he was determined to prove himself.  
He stared obediently ahead while his dominus continued the ministrations, waiting to be commanded. His heart quickened a beat when the mage glanced at his face and paused, not daring to see his expression. Silence followed, and the elf almost wished for something to happen, if only to end the agony of waiting.  
“It’s…been awhile, Fenris.”

He wondered how the mage knew his name. The slavers didn’t know it, he was sure…perhaps he’d heard tell of him, or seen him accompanying his former dominus.  
Then…why did he behave as though he knew him? Personally? Fenris wished domini weren’t so eternally confusing. He’d known Danarius, been safe with him, able to predict his moods and evade most punishments, but he knew nothing of this mage. He’d have to learn through trial and error how to behave around him; and error would undoubtedly result in pain, the kind only mages knew how to administer. 

He didn’t realize he was tense, waiting for a signal to speak. He didn’t know how to respond, and Danarius made it sure that he would only speak when explicitly told to. He swallowed. 

His domine’s voice was now tinged with upset - disapproval? - and he continued to speak. “Fenris? Are you alright? Sit up.” Fenris rose quickly enough to give himself whiplash, relieved to have a command to listen to; surely there was no wrong way to ‘sit up’. 

Or, at least, he thought there wasn’t. The way his dominus jerked back, feet slipping on the bare wood, proved him wrong. “Maker, Fenris!” He exclaimed, and the shock and reprimand in the mage’s voice made Fenris’s stomach curl. “And I was actually worried for you, for a moment there.”

Fenris risked the slightest glance towards him, swallowing again as he tumbled from the mattress in a preemptive plea. His forehead touched the rough, splintered floor, resting between his domine’s feet, one hand on either side of himself. “I apologize, Domine.”


	3. Straw In Your Knickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'll be alternating between POVs every chapter, I figured I should ask - would you guys like less frequent, but longer chapters, where I write both Anders' and Fenris's perspective of events, or would you like me to continue having shorter, but more frequent chapters, where I write one perspective at a time?

_"Domine?"_ Anders' voice rose high as he skittered back, back pressing against the wall - as though he could escape from the horrible truth of what had happened. He turned, placed a hand over his mouth in an attempt not to retch. 

And then, for the first time in a few days, Justice spoke. Recently, all Anders had felt from him were mute swells of rage. Of course, he was hardly pleased, but at least he was speaking understandably, and almost calmly. **Do not act so suddenly. The elf is frightened; he does not remember.**

****Justice had always liked Fenris. Likely it was because being near him - rather, all that lyrium - was the closest to the feeling of the fade as a spirit or mage could get in the material world. It may or may not have contributed to Anders' dislike of the elf.

Like Justice had pointed out, however, Anders could see the faintest tremble run through Fenris, fingers twitching against the splintered floor. He'd always been good at hiding when he was frightened - clearly he was, still, if he could hold up this well after what he'd been through so recently. 

Anders dropped to one knee, tired eyes crinkling as he attempted to give a soothing smile. Past fights were pushed aside, for now; Fenris was a patient, after all. A live-in patient. Probably. "Please don't call me domine." Anders slid cold hands - his fingers were always frozen stiff, it bothered him when so much of his job was touching people - around thin, bruised wrists. A lip pulled between his teeth in displeasure when he saw splinters filling the elf's palms, guiding him to his feet. 

"Then...what would you like me to call you, dom...master?"

"Not that, either." Anders replied, distaste clear in his voice.

Before he could add anything else, Fenris said hurriedly, "I am sorry I have displeased you..." He seemed to be at a loss, tongue curling around words he’d just been told he couldn’t say.

Anders tugged him to his feet, where he stood mutely, head bowed. "Anders. Call me Anders. Now sit, I have to tend to your hands." Fenris did so, a little too promptly. The thin fabric that covered the mattress split - it had been threatening to for weeks, stretched and worn, and Anders would admit that he often overfilled it to make it a touch more comfortable. A large tear ran cleanly along the seam, and Anders might have muttered a curse if it wasn't for the look on Fenris's face. He was utterly terrified. 

Anders’ grip on his wrists suddenly tightened as the elf attempted to throw himself on the floor, grunting as he pushed him back onto the mattress. Andraste’s tits, Fenris might have lost his memories, but he didn’t lose that barbaric strength. It was likely only realizing that Anders still wanted him sitting that kept him pliant enough to hold onto. "I apologize, domine-" A flinch, followed by, "I am deeply sorry, I..." 

Anders felt sick. What had the proud elf he'd known been turned into? "Hey, hey," He soothed, as though he were speaking to a child who bawled in fear of his magic. “It was old. You don’t need to apologize, I’m not angry.” Fenris gave the slightest nod, but it was clear he didn’t believe Anders in the slightest. 

**He has been lied to. Unjustly.**

Yes, _Justice, I get it. This whole situation is bloody unjust, just…shut up and let me deal with him._

Justice hummed in faint displeasure, but remained quiet, watching Fenris thoughtfully. 

Anders decided he could work on the elf’s hands, for now. He doubted anything he could say would make this situation better for either of them; Fenris needed time, not empty assurances. He’d seen things like this, dealt with enough injured slaves in his house to know how to behave around them.

Aside, of course, from the fact that this was Fenris. And that he was calling Anders his…domine. He hated that sodding word, it sounded like something that a woman from the Blooming Rose would be called. Perhaps a little simple, for a Rose worker. 

“Just…be still, please.” His magic could heal the wounds, but it couldn’t get wood out of Fenris’s skin. He turned to rummage in a threadbare fabric bag by his bed. Tweezers…he hadn’t used the bloody things in months. They’d made it to the bottom of his bag, sandwiched between a roll of thick bandages and a tooth hook. That one was better left alone. 

He sat gingerly on the bed by Fenris, attempting to soothe his nerves – and Anders’ own – by putting on his I’m-totally-calm-I’m-a-healer face. “I’m going to numb your hands, alright? You’ll still feel some pressure, but let me know if it hurts.” His hands glowed a faint blue, and Fenris paled. Anders could see him forcing himself to be still, not to rip his hands away from the magic, and held back a disappointed sigh. He knew slaves here were subjected to all sorts of terrible magic, and he couldn’t blame them, but still…for someone never to have seen the blessing of healing magic saddened him.

Perhaps this was why Fenris had never allowed him to heal him, Anders thought. The light from his hands faded, and he began methodically pulling bits of wood from the elf’s palms. He knew Fenris hated magic, had always hated it, but maybe worry that his fear would be revealed was what had kept him from letting Anders heal him, only ever resorting to elfroot. 

Fenris swallowed, looked away. Every so often, the slightest tremor ran through him, and Anders was trying to decide whether it was from fear or cold. It wasn’t exactly warm, after all, but…oh, sod it. He was going to have to buy a blanket. He’d settled for using his coat as a thin blanket, but Fenris would likely need something a little more substantial. And not taken. And then there was the matter of sewing up the cover for the mattress, because Andraste knows he couldn’t afford another one. 

Memories of Hawke’s warm mansion, where he’d had nothing to worry about but the nagging of Justice, made him ache. How nice it had been, when he hadn’t had to concern himself with how he was going to buy food. But those days were over, and right now he had a brainwashed elf, an oncoming night that was getting progressively colder, and a split bedcover to deal with. 

Elf first. Then bedcover, and then…he’d figure something out for the cold. 

“There.” The last bit of wood was pulled out neatly, and Anders looked over Fenris’s palms for just a moment before declaring him splinter-free. A quick flash of magic had Fenris jerking in surprise, the smears of blood on his skin all that was left of the injuries. “Rub your hands together, get some feeling in them. And don’t throw yourself down like that anymore…please.” He added as an afterthought.

“Now, if you’ll stand, maybe we can sew up this sheet before bed. You need rest, but I can’t have you getting straw in your knickers.”


	4. Pretty Scales Hide Fangs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority vote was that I combine chapters, so starting next chapter, I will be! Finishing this up, and next chapter will be the new format.

Fenris was rapidly deciding that this dominus might be even more dangerous than Danarius was. Danarius had been clear with what he wanted; he gave direct orders, created clear rules, made Fenris’s place clear. This mage was…confusing.

He had still been wildly disoriented as he flew onto the floor, barely registering the multiple pinpricks felt all over his palms. He could feel the faint tendrils of enchantment that connected him to his dominus, fainter, but still very present. His head was spinning, and he decided what would be easiest was to lay here, prostrate and waiting for his domine’s command. As well as trying not to vomit all over said domine’s floor. 

He heard some startled mumble, heard the mage’s feet shuffle away until he was at the opposite wall of the little hut. He was silent, and the longer the quietness went on, the more Fenris was sure something was wrong. Perhaps his punishment was being planned. He was used to this kind of pressure, although the terror of waiting for painful magic never lessened. However, the shock and confusion of the situation somewhat damaged his abilities to keep control over his body. A thin tremor ran through him, giving way to the curdling fear in the pit of his stomach. 

He tried not to flinch when the mage’s knee lowered in front of his face, preparing himself. Perhaps a rough hand under his chin, forcing them to look at each other and the elf’s own eyes to drop in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. A blow to the head or a bolt of magic would be less stressful, albeit more painful.

“Please don’t call me domine.” Fingers that were long and chilled wrapped around his wrists, gentler than he was comfortable with. He was guided to his feet with an equally slow, calm motion. His head remained bowed as he gained his feet, legs quivering once as they struggled to keep him upright without swaying. The mage inspected his hands, tutting once and chewing on his lip. 

“Then…what would you like me to call you, dom…master?” The word _domine_ was second nature to Fenris. Danarius had purred every time he said it, and he’d learned that slipping it in every sentence or so would ease any displeasure his dominus had with him. Yes, domine. Of course, domine. Thank you, domine. I love you, domine. 

Being told not to say it was…bizarre. 

His new dominus had a disgusted tone when he spoke next, sending spikes of alarm into Fenris’s mind. “Not that, either.” He’d already made a mistake, it seemed. This mage was, perhaps, trickier than Danarius to understand. 

“I am sorry I displeased you…” His mouth formed the word, but he caught himself, frowning slightly. He was at a loss, but surely it was disrespectful to address his domine so casually! He was relieved, however, to hear that the displeasure was mostly gone from his domine’s voice when he next spoke. 

“Anders. Call me Anders. Now sit, I need to tend to your hands.” Glad to have a command to follow, Fenris did so, perhaps too…promptly. His weight fell quickly onto the thin, overstretched bedcover, and it split cleanly along the seam. 

His domine didn’t speak, but Fenris caught his face contort in surprise and something that was between annoyance and anger. His eyes flit downwards, and he pushed forward, tried to show his apologies with a bow, but the effort was abandoned as soon as he felt his domine tighten his grip, grunting with the effort of pushing him back. The mage wasn’t physically strong, but mages didn’t have to be; that’s why they were so dangerous. 

Fenris sat as still as possible, the grip that Anders had on him feeling like ice, ready for the burning magic to light up his lyrium brands like hot metal under his skin. “I apologize, domine-” He flinched terribly at the realization, babbling in the hopes that the transgression would go unnoticed. “I am deeply sorry, I…”

The mage spoke, but his words weren’t any comfort. “Hey, hey,” Fenris could feel his ears tilting downwards. “It was old. You don’t need to apologize, I’m not angry.” His tone was soft, soothing, but Fenris only saw the smooth scales of a viper sliding together before it struck. Any smart slave knew not to trust the kind words of their dominus, lest the punishment that inevitably followed sting even worse. 

But Fenris nodded anyway, knowing that he would appear to be disobeying if he was reluctant. “Just…be still, please.” Anders said, lips pressed together. His dominus didn’t seem in any better of a mood at his compliance, stooping to search through a patched cloth bag at the foot of the bed. Metal clicked together, and there was a feeling like needles prickling at his skin with anticipation. He could only imagine what sort of contraptions a healer of all things could think of, with such an intimate knowledge of anatomy and-

Tweezers? The mage pulled a simple pair of tweezers out of the bag, turning to sit with a pointed delicacy on the bed. That wasn’t…what he had expected, but it wasn’t any difference. Expecting the worst with mages was just common sense, keeping on your toes so you could be prepared for the pain to come. These would still hurt, digging into his skin for small pieces of wood, so-

“I’m going to numb your hands, alright? You’ll still feel some pressure, but let me know if it hurts.” Fasta vass, what was this mage playing at? The slightest frown slipped onto Fenris’s face, lifting his chin just barely in an unconscious show of distrust. 

His rapidly spinning mind was halted, however, by the first display of magic he’d actually seen from the mage. He’d still felt the remnants of it in his blood when he woke before, but he hadn’t seen it. Now it was clear, glowing a bright blue that tinged white-hot, and he felt cold with fear. 

Magic, that made him burn as though hot razors were edging along the lines of the lyrium embedded in him. Magic, that could be used to make a man wish for the simple torture of knives, magic that tasted like copper in your mouth and felt like fire in your blood. He would say he despised it, but that kind of ingratitude for your domine’s work was betrayal of the worst kind. 

He held still, stiff and trying to ignore the alarm as he, as had been forewarned, lost all the feeling in his hands. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to move them if he wanted to. He watched his dominus with wary eyes, ready for the snap. Surely this wasn’t all he planned on? Fenris had offered disrespect in breaking his domine’s rules, harmed himself, his domine’s property, and then ruined his bedclothes. There was no way he’d allow that to go unpunished. 

He couldn’t watch as the mage began pulling wood from his skin, his movements never anything but quick and practiced. The snake certainly had very convincing scales. His skin chilled as the temperature dropped, but it didn’t overly bother him. This type of discomfort was familiar, and he could bear it far more easily than the stress this new master was inflicting on him.

“There.” His dominus proclaimed, setting the red-tipped tweezers aside. Fenris wasn’t looking forward to working with damaged hands, but he’d survived with worse. The mage looked over his palms, a quick motion and a flash of light making Fenris jolt with alarm. But all that had changed was the state of his hands, the many small wounds healed and the first tingles of feeling in his fingers. “Rub your hands together, get some feeling in them. And don’t throw yourself down like that anymore…please.” 

Fenris nodded quickly, rubbing his cold hands together to make the nerves buzz back to life. “Now, if you’ll stand, maybe we can sew up this sheet before bed. You need rest, but I can’t have you getting straw in your knickers.” 

Yes, this dominus was certainly going to be trickier than Danarius.


	5. Memories, Where'd You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBpuhrGoyck

_The sound was like a sword through his chest. He’d never heard anything so loud, so…destructive. Justice – Vengeance? – crowed within him. Justice had finally been, would finally be served. The mages would have their revolution, and the barbaric reign of the Templars would end. The Chantry had been destroyed, the beam of light that emanated from the rubble already gone. The suddenness with which death had come and gone shook him._

_Anders couldn’t say what of his actions had been due to Justice’s influence, the once reasonable and kind spirit twisted by the pain and anger in his own heart. He’d taken a thing of beauty and turned it ugly. This was what he did to all he touched, he knew. Even as Justice roared with triumph within him, Anders realized just what a vile infection he was. He’d gotten Karl killed, he had killed that mage girl, he had twisted Justice into some horrible thing that didn’t realize the_ injustice _of all the lives that he’d taken._

_He felt sick._

_And then Hawke looked at him. Hawke, who had been his refuge, with his warm hands, his soft bed, the comforting rumble of his voice and the way he smiled into Anders’ hair when they embraced. Hawke, who was his everything._

_And the betrayal in his eyes crushed Anders. He felt himself wilt like a flower that had lost the sun. A monster. They all looked at him and saw a monster, and who was to say they were wrong? This was necessary, it was all that would end this eternal battle, all that would end the injustice, his mind scrambled to remind him. Was it even his mind, anymore? Perhaps he really was just an abomination, a monster._

_He felt a tinge of something that wasn’t quite gratitude, but wasn’t disappointment, either, when Hawke said he could live. That he simply had to leave. There was a grief in Hawke’s voice so profound, it made Anders knuckles turn white and his heart hurt with an agony he’d never known before._

_I love you, he wished he could say. He wished he was brave enough to say it, one last time. But the shame was too great. Bile rose in his throat as he left, stumbling dazedly through streets already streaked with blood, and-_

Anders jerked awake, promptly falling out of the bed. A thump sounded, almost directly followed by several curses while he got clumsily to his feet, nursing a bruised elbow. “Andraste’s _fucking_ tits, that hurt!” He hissed, placing a hand over the spot and allowing a small amount of magic to flow into it. Why had he been so near the edge of the bed? Normally he slept squashed against the wall, since he moved so much in his slee-

“Anders?” A voice spoke, the utter meekness of the tone making him feel like slugs were crawling up his back. Ugh. He could tell that wasn’t going to get any less uncomfortable. 

Anders straightened his back, sighing. Fenris was sitting up, Anders’ coat draped over his legs and looking altogether alarmed. Where were his manners, forgetting about his new houseguest? Not like it was hard, though, with how little he’d spoken in the week he’d been here. After that first day, he hadn’t gotten two words out of the elf that weren’t, “Yes, Anders,” or “Thank you, Anders,” or “I apologize, Anders.” 

It was bloody maddening. 

He probably would have been embarrassed, if the healer had any pride left to lose. He didn’t, really, and so he simply sat back on the bed, laying down in the small strip of space that was left. At least Fenris was an elf; no matter how muscled-up he got, he was still slender enough that sharing a small bed wasn’t hard. Anders might have been willing to give up his ‘blanket’ – alright, it was a coat, big difference – for the elf, but he certainly wasn’t going to sleep on a hard, splintered floor when there were a perfectly good fifteen inches of bed for him here.

He should probably look into purchasing a mat. He was pretty sure the vendor he got his medical supplies from sold some cheap ones. Not comfortable, but private, at least. And perhaps this was his signal from the Maker that he should look into some plain blankets, as well, and that even if he still had the mental health of a pile of nug shit, taking more than two baths a week would make him far more pleasant to patients. 

Or it was his signal from the Maker that his life wasn’t entirely nug-shit enough, yet. 

“Yes, Fenris?” He kept his voice calm, now accustomed to having his ‘healer’ persona on full-time. The elf would flinch and be generally even more timid if he showed the slightest sign of annoyance, which was just…uncomfortable. He’d seen Fenris crush more than his share of vital organs; timidity didn’t suit him. 

“Who…is Hawke?” One thing Anders had been pleased about recently was that Fenris had started asking questions. It was a very recent development, mind you, but since the moment two days ago when Fenris learned he could ask questions, he’d been like a three year old child. Everything was questioned, although with the utmost respect and humbleness. Really, what about Anders’ grimy, barely held together appearance commanded respect? Contempt, he’d understand, but not respect. 

Anders rolled over, keeping his back to Fenris. He preferred it that way, both because sleeping near to a person was…strange, after two years alone, and because Fenris’s eyes glowed in the dark, which was off-putting. Well, perhaps a bit. It did remind him of Ser-Pounce-A-Lot, after all, and anything that reminded him of his cat was at least a little pleasant. 

Had he been talking in his sleep? That was the only way Fenris could have heard the name, he figured. “I’d rather not answer that, Fenris.” There was a small pause, and Anders sighed. Perhaps this would help him remember, even if the memories were a little too raw for the mage to poke at himself. That dream had been frighteningly realistic, but so were all the others he had. “He…you knew him. Before.” Fenris was silent for a long time, long enough that Anders turned to glance at him over his shoulder. 

He wasn’t looking at Anders, instead inspecting the sparsely feathered coat between his hands. He ran a hand over the patchy feathers. Time hadn’t been kind to his precious coat, and admittedly he’d spent too much of the past two years wallowing in misery and helping injured slaves to take better care of it. “Hawke.” Fenris murmured, staring at the feathers. He’d moved while Anders wasn’t looking, and he hadn’t noticed, which was disconcerting. Fenris had always had the soft step of a wild animal, and perhaps Anders wasn’t the most alert directly after a…nightmare. That’s what he’d call it, he supposed. 

The elf had his feet pressed together like a child, and Anders felt a sympathy twinge in his own legs. He was about the most inflexible creature on earth, simply sitting cross-legged for too long making his joints ache, but Fenris never showed any trouble with such positions. He was rather envious. Fenris pressed his back against the wall, frowning.

“I know that name.” He finally answered, but he didn’t look pleased. Anders could imagine it didn’t hold pleasant connotations for him, anymore. He looked up, met Anders’ gaze for the first time, and he felt his breath catch. Those eyes, hard and strong, those weren’t the eyes of a slave, they were-

“Mage?” 

Anders jolted up, faced Fenris and grabbed his shoulders, feeling some mixture of overwhelming delight and wrenching fear. For the first time, he wondered if Fenris knew what he had done. He had been given back to Danarius before the events that had seen Anders banished, but it wasn’t as though news of the event had stayed in Kirkwall. 

But the moment his hands touched the elf, the expression faded back into that subservient mess that wasn’t Fenris. They stared at each other for a second that felt like an eternity, Anders gripping Fenris as though he could pull him back from the magic that held him, Fenris holding Anders’ gaze as though he was in a trance. It was still the first time that they’d made eye contact, and Anders was reminded that elves did have very…pretty eyes. 

And then Fenris flinched and dropped his gaze, not daring to pull away from Anders’ touch, even though he pressed himself hard into the wall. Anders felt sick. He pulled away, stood, pulled his hair tie out and ran his hands through the strands that were starting to get greasy. He needed a bath. He needed a lot of things, but a bath should probably be first on his list. That would have to wait till morning, but he still couldn’t stand to be in this smothering shack another instant.  
“Do you…do you want to take a walk with me?” He stumbled over the words, hands shaking. “Down to the coast, or something. It’s dangerous at night, so I understand if you want to stay, but...” He trailed off, pacing. It was doubtful that Fenris would say no, but he was too shaky to feel proper guilt over it. He knew he was probably taking advantage, but he needed some company, someone present to keep him from floating away. 

“I…yes, Anders.” Fenris stood obediently, and Anders covered his mouth to stifle a laugh of hysteria at something that wasn’t funny at all. Perhaps he was still in a nightmare. 

“You can wear my coat.” He said shortly, the humor passing and leaving him sober. He pulled the door open and took his staff from where it stood, leaned against the wall. “I need to tell you something. A lot of things.”

 

**

 

This mage…wasn’t much of a mage. Fenris had thought that initially, but he’d had time to ponder it, over the past week. He was powerful, even a slave could see, but he didn’t use that power to become a magister. He had even been approached once, had an actual magister make him an offer to become an apprentice, and denied it without even considering. Fenris had followed him with bewilderment as he continued to buy the cheap medical supplies for his hovel of a clinic. 

And his clinic. What kind of mage would spend all his time, all of his savings on healing those that couldn’t pay him? Yes, sometimes they gave him food or a spare copper in return for his efforts, but more often than not the mage just collapsed at the end of the day, drained of mana and none the richer. Fenris had never met a mage so dirt-poor. 

The first night, after clumsily sewing up his half of the tear – Anders was already done, clearly his better when it came to patching ripped cloth, which bewildered him. Why would a mage need to know how to sew? – Fenris had been astounded when Anders told him they were sharing the bed. A mage, sharing his bed with a slave? It was a trick, surely. He spent the first night awake, crammed between the wall and a mage, which was…not an enviable position. Like being trapped in a cave with a sleeping bear. He had been still and silent, waiting for the backlash to come as soon as Anders woke. 

But it didn’t. In the morning, the mage stirred, turning almost immediately to peer at him with sleepy eyes. He’d frowned, and Fenris had tensed, but all Anders did was ask, “You didn’t sleep?” 

The rest of the week had passed in similar confusion. He never left the mage’s side, apart from when they bathed. Anders gave him a rag and a bowl of water and told him there was nothing better to use, before stepping outside. It was hardly the most thorough bath he’d ever had, considering he had been Danarius’s…personal slave, but it felt good to be at least a little cleaner. 

In all that time with Anders, he had seen the mage dutifully follow a simple routine. He’d wake at dawn, walk to the market, get a bag of supplies from the same vendor, and return home. By then, there were usually a few patients waiting for him, and these he healed with a smile. Usually one or two of them could spare a few pieces of stale bread or hard cheese, and this Anders split equally between the two of them. While Fenris wolfed down his food – soon learning manners didn’t matter nearly as much, here – Anders took a few slow bites, and almost always pushed at least a third of it towards the elf with a proclamation that he was full. 

Fenris didn’t understand. This was all the food they would receive, and it was clear from the sharp way Anders turned his gaze from it that he was still hungry. What was the point of lying? But he didn’t have the bravery to question his domine’s actions, and so ate the food anyway. 

On the third night of sharing a bed, Fenris wondered what purpose he had. He hadn’t aided his domine in any way since he’d arrived. No chores were done, he wasn’t skilled enough to help him in healing, and…despite their closeness, Anders slept with his back to Fenris, and hadn’t touched him once. Why would a master keep a slave that he didn’t use? Danarius had admired him for his strength, his obedience, his beauty. But none of these seemed to matter to this very odd domine. 

He’d mentioned briefly that they’d known each other before. That Fenris had escaped, and been…he swallowed to even think it…a free man. Free. Anders had said it so casually, as though it weren’t shocking at all. That a thing that was a slave, in every essence of its being, could be called free. It was astounding. 

And, he felt, a trick. A cruel joke. Perhaps his domine was testing him, before making him useful; seeing if he wished for freedom, if he would disobey. So Fenris was careful not to show any signs of eagerness to hear about his past ‘freedom’, not to look as though he wished for it now. He was not meant to be free; he was meant to belong to a master, to a magister, although his dominus now was not one. 

It had been a week, and he still hadn’t been helpful in any way. Fenris was growing rather frustrated with the waiting game. He lay on his side, staring at the back of Anders’ head as though it would answer all of his questions. His eyes widened with alarm when the mage threw himself onto his back, letting out some sound that was like an agonized moan. His brow was furrowed, a stray tear falling from his eye, and he whimpered out a word, a strangled mess of a sentence that sounded like a proclamation of love and an apology at the same time.

And a name. Or at least, Fenris was fairly sure it was a name; it would be odd to call a bird with such passion. Hawke. 

Why did that feel so familiar? He had only a second to wonder before Anders jumped awake, long arms flailing as he fell off the narrow space he’d been laying on. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so alarming, sitting up as he watched the mage climb to his feet. He was muttering curses, a few in a language that Fenris didn’t understand. He turned back, the scowl on his face fading when he saw Fenris watching him. A small brush of light against a bruised elbow followed, before Anders laid back down. Fenris bit the inside of his cheek. “Anders?”

There was a slight pause, followed by a gentle reply. His domine was never anything but soft to him, which was…strange. It would be nice, if he wasn’t constantly fearing the kindness would turn into anger and harshness. “Yes, Fenris?”

He hesitated. Perhaps asking this was unwise. But the familiarity of the name ‘Hawke’ drove him to risk punishment. “Who…is Hawke? 

Anders stilled. He rolled over, his back facing Fenris once more, and the elf swallowed past the lump of sudden dread in his throat. Had he made another mistake? But his master’s voice was the same soft tone as he spoke, as though silently assuring him he wouldn’t be punished. “I’d rather not answer that, Fenris.” He answered, and Fenris’s hopes wilted. But then, a slow sigh followed, and Anders spoke again. “He…you knew him. Before.” 

Fenris shifted, pressed his feet together and pulled Anders’ coat into his lap. The feathers were patchy, the fabric worn and resewed in several places, and yet…it was familiar. He knew this coat. “Hawke…” He whispered, and a wave of…something, rushed over him at the name. Grief? Sorrow? He wasn’t sure, but he suddenly felt…broken. 

He looked up at Anders, and then…Anders? The mage? He hadn’t seen Anders in an eternity, it felt like, not since before Hawke betrayed him to Danarius. What had happened? It felt like he was missing time. Where was he? Why was he in a bed with the mage? “Mage?”

It felt as though Fenris lost consciousness, then, because he opened his eyes and Anders was looming over him, hands pressing heavily enough on his shoulders that they hurt. There was some wild look in his eyes, delight and hope and fear, but all that faded to some utter disappointment as Fenris looked at him. He stared widely into those gentle eyes, as though he were held captive by them. It was a second that felt like years, and then he realized the huge show of disrespect that was making eye contact with your dominus, without permission. He flinched, gaze dropping. 

Fenris didn’t know what was going on, and he was held frozen by the fear that ran like ice through his blood. He had gone a full week without sharing a master’s bed, or at least, intimately, and he realized now that he’d grown some foolish hope he would never have to again. But that was the only explanation for why Anders was so close to him, why he held him so tightly, why he looked so suddenly desperate…his back pressed hard to the wall, staring at his lap and waiting. 

And then Anders rolled away, the beginnings of hysteria on his gaunt face. He stood, pacing, and Fenris could do nothing but huddle against the wall. An angry mage was not safe, and he was trapped in a very small room with one. Would he die? Or would he suffer some horrible punishment? Perhaps his lyrium markings would be burned, or-

“Do you…Do you want to take a walk with me? Down to the coast, or something. It’s dangerous at night, so I understand if you want to stay, but…” No. Absolutely not. Fenris did not want to go anywhere with a mage that was so on edge, didn’t want to be near something so utterly dangerous. But he also didn’t want to set him off by refusing his offer, which the elf wasn’t even sure was a true offer in the first place. Some commands posed as questions; he’d learned this quickly, with Danarius. 

“I…yes, Anders.” He rose swiftly to his feet, trying not to lean away from the crackling, warm scent of agitated magic. Anders covered his mouth, looked away for a small moment, and Fenris wondered if he was going to die by the hands of an insane mage tonight. 

“You can wear my coat.” Anders said, quickly becoming serious. He picked up his staff from its spot against the wall, jerking open the door. “I need to tell you something. A lot of things.” Fenris nodded, following his dominus and trying to ignore the pit of fear in his stomach. 

No matter what this was, he was certain it wouldn’t be good.


	6. Stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is too stubborn to seek help from an abomination. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much choice. A short from Act 1, before the events of Healing Magic.

“Here. Find these and take them to the herbalist in the Gallows, if you hate being healed so much.” Fenris blinked as Anders scribbled some symbols onto a piece of parchment and shoved them into his hands. The mage didn’t wait a moment before turning back to his patient, and Fenris quickly regained himself enough to stalk away, paper crumpling in his fist. A lump the size of a mabari’s paw throbbed on the back of his head, his leggings sticky with blood from a gash in his calf. They’d run out of elfroot on the mission, and Hawke had been too busy flirting and chatting with Isabela at the Hanged Man to do anything but send him to the mage. 

As if Fenris would allow the abomination’s filthy, magic-stained hands to touch him. 

He paused at the entrance of Darktown, staring at the crinkled paper in his hand. He couldn’t even read Tevene, let alone Common. Reading held no use for slaves, so they weren’t taught. Either the mage was taunting him, or he didn’t know; Fenris wasn’t sure which would be less irritating. Pity, or scorn. 

He’d just have Varric read it. 

 

**

 

“Hawke didn’t tell you? He left for that expedition, the one into the Deep Roads. And he took his brother along, as well…oh, I hope they’ll be alright.” Leandra turned away, chewing her lip with worry – she forgot about the elf the moment he left her sight, too concerned over her children.

This was a cruel joke. After finding the Hanged Man empty of any Varric, Isabela, or Hawke, Fenris stopped at Gamlen’s home. He’d just spoken to Hawke this morning! This was ridiculous! Why hadn’t he been notified? 

“Mage!” Fenris stormed into the clinic, head still pounding from the lump that hadn’t gotten any smaller. “Were you informed that Hawke would be leaving today?” Anders looked up with surprise and, more distinctly, annoyance. A book about…something, was in his hands, and the clinic was empty. It was evening, after all. 

“He sent us all letters a week ago that he and Varric were leaving. With Isabela, of course, and…Aveline, I think? I’ll recheck. Why don’t you try reading your mail before you come stomping into my clinic, hm? Sodding elf.” He muttered, looking back down into his book.

Fenris felt heat on his ears. He growled, turning back to leave. So he was left alone in Kirkwall with an abomination and a blood mage? The cruelty of it prickled at his skin. As did his leg wound, which was beginning to feel…warm. Disconcerting. 

It was two days later that he wondered which mage he’d least enjoy talking to. Anders, on one hand, would likely tease him mercilessly that he wasn’t able to read. Merrill, on the other hand…well, at least Anders was a healer. He knew nothing about the blood mage, and trusted her even less than he knew her. He wouldn’t leave his health to someone who willingly chose to practice blood magic. 

His leg hadn’t gotten better. In fact, it looked rather inflamed, now, as he peeled off his leggings. He grimaced as he looked over the wound, something suspiciously like pus oozing from it. Varric always scolded him - in Varric’s casual, but clearly attentive way - about not taking well enough care of himself, and perhaps he was right. He sat up in bed, deciding promptly that perhaps he should at least see Leandra, Hawke’s mother. However, his balance quickly decided he _wasn’t_ doing that, and the elf fell back in the bed with a grunt. His head was swimming from the attempt at standing up. 

He didn’t realize he’d fallen unconscious until he woke up, half-naked in his bed, at the slamming of a door. “You here, you stubborn elf? Varric told me to keep you fed if I didn’t see you at the Hanged Man. Personally, I think letting you starve would be just fine, but I’d never hear the end of it.” A voice mumbled, and if Fenris didn’t feel like moving would make him vomit, he would have gotten up. As it was, his limbs were far too heavy to control. 

“Hello? You can’t even answer-Andraste’s tits, Fenris!” The exclamation was suddenly close, and he heard a thud. Opening bleary eyes, he saw Anders on his knees beside the bed, a basket of what looked to be bread and jerky beside him. 

Cool hands pressed against his inflamed leg, and Fenris jerked in surprise. “Get…off of me, mage.” He mumbled, the words slurring together as though he were drunk. “I am…fine.” 

“The bloody hell I will, you damned elf! You’re about as fine as Andraste at the pyre, how did you let this get so infected? I gave you a list of ingredients!” Fenris felt his markings flare to life at the touch of magic, and flailed, one hand falling limply onto Anders’ shoulder. The tattoos tingled and almost burned, and he mumbled some curses in Tevene. 

Well, that answered whether Anders knew about his illiteracy. Fenris let out another disgruntled sound, but eventually remained still, any motion making his head spin. He couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh as the nausea began to fade, breathing out slowly. His eyes were closed, for fear the ceiling would move if he opened them. 

Or, for fear that there would be a blue-eyed abomination crouched over him. 

“How would I know how to read, mage? I suppose you think they teach slaves useless information?” Fenris mumbled out, pleased to find that he could string sentences together with little difficulty. For all that he hated the touch of magic, it was certainly effective, something he would never say out loud. 

Anders stilled, hands humming over his leg. It was only a moment before he continued his work, tutting as Fenris jerked when one hand slid behind his head. The jab that Fenris expected didn’t come. Instead, there was only a murmur that seemed more to Anders’ self than to him. “No wonder you didn’t know Hawke was leaving.”  
The throbbing on his head ceased with another burst of magic, and Fenris finally opened his eyes, ignoring the thrill of fear that came with first sight. He felt strangely…uncomfortable, ears tilted back in displeasure. Suddenly, he jerked upright, feeling decidedly better than he had. Not being near death, for instance, was an improvement. 

“Leave, abomination.” He snapped, eyes darting to the side. He stood quickly, not comfortable sitting in the presence of the mage. Anders huffed, getting to his feet, and Fenris noted with an odd feeling that he looked pale. The wound on his leg had been reduced to a relatively small scar, only half an inch thick in the middle, and perhaps two inches long. There was no sign of infection. 

“You're welcome, Broody.” Anders said reproachfully. He turned, pointing to a basket that lay, rather disheveled, beside the bed. It must have been dropped when the mage entered and saw Fenris. “There’s food from the Hanged Man. Don’t feel pressured to eat it, it may well be poisoned, coming from an _abomination_.” Fenris watched him go, some unusual pressure in his chest. Was it safe? It was night, he saw, glancing out one of the large windows of the estate. 

If anyone had claimed to see a mage walking through Hightown and all the way to Darktown, trailed from a distance by a white-haired elf, it’s likely that their hearts would have been quickly removed.


	7. Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders witnesses, once again, the atrocities that occur alongside slavery.

Anders sat on a rocky outcrop, watching the waves crash against the bottom. His throat was rough from speaking; he didn’t know how Varric told all those stories without losing his voice. Fenris sat beside him, silent, but listening with clear intent.

He’d told him everything. Told him a story that had, oddly enough, circled from Fenris, when he first told Hawke, to Anders, and back to Fenris again. The story of his escape. That led to many others. The story of how he met Hawke, and how he had fought his way through Danarius’s mansion just to find it empty. Fenris had paled slightly when he heard that, seeming daunted by the idea, but didn’t interrupt.

The time when Fenris had nearly let a simple leg wound kill him, instead of reaching out to Anders or Merrill for help. “Merrill?” Fenris had asked, and Anders had remembered with a short laugh the girl who played with blood magic. She had been the only one who really wanted him to stay, even if it was only to make up for his mistakes.

“I thought you were mad. And then,” He laughed softly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I found out I’d accidentally been taunting you for days, giving you a note and asking about Hawke’s letters. Do you…do you remember how to read?” Anders suddenly asked, looking hopeful. “Hawke taught you some, I think, he…gave you a book.”

Fenris paused. “I…I am sorry, but I do not know, Anders.” It was beginning to wear on him that his name was said with the same inflection as ‘Domine’. The first fucking company he’d had in ages, and it was with the same distance, the same fear that surrounded everyone else when they neared him. Even those he’d healed treated him like a viper, like there was a cloud of poisoned air around him.

_Anders. Answer him._

“Well, I’m sure I can find you something. If you don’t remember, I can teach you. My Tevene is a little rusty, though…” He trailed off with a mutter. A book in Common would be a little harder to come by, here. He paused, an almost nostalgic smile on his face that did nothing for his shadowed eyes. “Do you know what you did, as soon as you were well enough? After I healed that leg wound up, and got rid of the infection in your blood. It took all the mana right out of me. And then you didn’t even look at me, just stood up and told me to leave. I was pretty pissed, but looking back on it I think you were just embarrassed.”

Fenris looked stricken. “I…spoke to you that way?” Anders laughed. 

“You never said anything to me that wasn’t a variation of ‘leave’ or ‘I hate you’. You hated mages, and I’m sure when I break the blood magic on you you’ll hate them again. Maybe we’ll even go back to our old banter.” He paused. “It’s easier to see how you despise us, though, living in this hellhole.”

If someone had told him three years ago that he’d miss arguing with Fenris, he would have said they had a demon in them. 

 

**

 

The next morning was, luckily enough, a calm one. Anders healed a sprained ankle, a broken finger, a few similar small injuries. He sat on the bed as his last patient left, feeling rather relieved nothing major had happened. He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep the night before, staying awake till dawn and leaving early. A small blanket was folded neatly at the end of the bed, the cheapest one he could find. All in all, a shitty night had turned into a pleasant day. 

Until his door swayed open, a boy with blood soaking his trousers and face collapsing in the entrance. Behind him stood a girl of no more than ten, babbling in some dialect of Tevene that Anders couldn’t understand for the life of him. There were smears of blood on her shirt, but it was clear most of it wasn’t hers. As he rushed forward, his staff clattered to the ground. 

Shit.

“Fenris, help me get him on the bed.” Anders quickly directed the elf, who had been sitting against the wall. Fenris promptly leapt to his feet, setting aside a small book that had been borrowed from Anders’ friend at the market. The boy had to be at least fourteen, and he let out a wail when Fenris picked him up. Just what had been done to him? 

It was, admittedly, much easier to work with emergency patients when there was a lyrium-enhanced elf to help you out. Fenris hauled the man to Anders’ cot in record time, while Anders himself downed a lyrium potion. This wasn’t going to be fun. He stripped the boy of his shirt, pressing glowing hands to his chest to assess the damage, and the boy let out another noise that was something between a shriek of fear and a moan of pain. The girl, still in the doorway, started bawling, mumbling out more words Anders didn’t have the time or concentration to understand. 

“Fenris, close the door, and calm her down, please!” It was difficult not to shout, but this wasn’t Anders’ first time with a patient who was bleeding out. He let out a hiss between his teeth when his magic found the source of the injury. 

The boy had been castrated. He’d heard of horrific practices like this, done by slavers to keep their charges looking young and feminine. This one clearly hadn’t been done with any degree of skill, either; they’d probably tossed him aside when he started to bleed too much. 

Anders had a difficult time quelling Justice’s rage along with his own, but for the moment he was able to concentrate on healing the poor child. Two fingers pressed against his forehead, a small bolt of magic rendering him unconscious. It was a kindness, for the moment. He healed the wounds, but the larger issue was the lost blood. There wasn’t much he could do for that; the boy would simply have to be strong enough to survive the night. He dampened a rag in the bucket of water he kept while the clinic was open. As he began to methodically clean the drying blood, he registered a deep, slow voice behind him. He glanced back. 

Fenris sat with the girl in his arms, speaking quietly in Tevene. She rested in his lap, leaning against him, although her eyes remained on the boy. Her brother? Anders didn’t know. He was able to make out most of the words; Fenris spoke a much clearer form of the language. It was a story, one he remembered Merrill telling over the table at a quiet night in the Hanged Man. 

"Fen’Harel tried to shake his pursuer, but the hound ran as coursers can only run in their dreams. Even the wind couldn’t have fled that hound.” Word for word, he relayed the tale, and Anders felt himself relaxing as that calm voice spoke, almost rhythmic. He finished cleaning the boy, dressing him in a pair of the trousers he’d gotten for Fenris – his own were far too big, and even these were loose. 

Anders pretended to be busy until the story was finished. Finally, he turned back to them, dark circles under his eyes and almost entirely drained of mana. He crouched, smiling softly at the girl. She watched him with the same kind of fear everyone did, even when they were driven to him and in need of his magic. His accent was terrible, he knew, but he spoke to her in Tevene, voice gentle. “Are you alright? Is this boy your brother?” 

She nodded quickly, and he noted absently that Fenris looked the calmest he had the entire time he’d stayed with Anders. At his second question, however, she paused before shaking her head. She said something quietly, and Anders chewed on his lip when he didn’t understand it. “Fenris?”

“She says he was in her orphanage, but went missing a few days ago. She found him in the side alley and brought him here, since they would have let him die otherwise.” Anders nodded, sighing. They likely would, too, simply for lack of the ability to do otherwise. Healers that hadn’t used their powers to climb ranks were…rare, in Tevinter. 

“Well, thank you for bringing him. You saved his life.” Anders responded. His smile faltered slightly when the girl only stared at him, before they both simultaneously looked to Fenris. The elf hesitated, but quickly realized he was meant to translate. He said some words in Tevene that were, admittedly, much clearer than Anders’. 

Anders pressed his lips together, glancing back at the boy. He wouldn’t feel comfortable sending him back the moment he woke, and there were some things he needed to discuss with him in private. Namely, the changes that would take place in his body, after what had been done to him. 

**ANDERS!** Justice’s voice was loud enough to make his skull hurt. The spirit barely noticed; normally, he would take care to keep from splitting Anders’ skull. 

_Justice, do you think I feel any better about this?_

**IT IS UNJUST. SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!**

Justice was still simmering with fury, and Anders had nothing to concentrate on. He took a slow breath, smiling at the girl. “Would you ask if she can make it home by herself? I think her friend will be well enough to return home tomorrow at noon.” Fenris nodded obediently, translating the question, and the girl turned back to Anders with distrust. Though she spoke slowly this time, Anders could still only make out a few words.

Fenris hesitated before answering, finally murmuring, “She…wants to be sure he will be safe with a magister.” 

Anders crossed his arms, straightening his back. “Hm. I see.” He said quietly, turning around and picking his staff up from the floor. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Fenris, resisting the urge to sigh. It was too much to hope, he supposed, that the elf would trust him to any degree not to be a monster. 

He turned, meeting the girl’s fearful eyes with a tired smile, crouching. Fenris’s hand tightened the slightest bit on her upper arm. Slowly, Anders held the staff out to her. It was the last thing he’d ever been given by Hawke; beautiful wood, almost black, and polished to a surface smooth enough to see your reflection in. Despite its thick, woven build, it was light enough that even a mage as skinny as Anders could wield it without effort. It was clear that it was Anders’ pride and joy, from the tender way he held it, to the obvious care that had been put into it. “Can you take care of this for me? Until tomorrow?” 

Fenris’s eyes were large as he translated, large enough to match the girl’s once she heard him. She reached out to take the staff as though it were made of fire, seeming surprised at the lightness. When Anders reached out to help her to her feet, as tentative as though he was the one who needed to be afraid, she only paused a moment before she took it. 

Fenris continued staring at him as he sent the girl off, his staff clutched in her hands. “You…gave her your staff, Anders?” He questioned, respectful but bewildered. Anders tossed the soiled basin of water out the door, refilling it and rinsing his hands. 

“Loaned her my staff, actually.” Anders corrected. 

Fenris’s brows pulled together. The expression reminded Anders of his familiar scowl, though it was much less…bitter. “I…apologize if I am being disrespectful, Anders, but…” He stopped, hesitant. Anders sighed, shaking his hands a few times to dry them. He placed two fingers on the boy’s throat, checking his pulse. 

“Go ahead, Fenris. Remember, you’re a free man.”

Fenris nodded. “What if…she does not return?” 

Anders shrugged. “Then she doesn’t. I’m sure the boy can tell us where he lives.” 

Fenris frowned. “But she has your staff-“

“It’s a piece of wood, Fenris.” 

The elf seemed utterly bewildered, but he didn’t question Anders’ actions any further. Instead, he stood and watched as the mage sat on the edge of the cot. Anders’ eyes lingered on the boy’s form, his breathing slow and blissfully calm. He’d likely panic the second he woke up.

“What was done to him?” Fenris’s voice was apprehensive. 

“I’d rather wait for when I explain it to him. Hearing is the first sense to return, after all, and this isn’t news to deliver roughly.” Anders murmured. 

**

Morning found Anders sitting on the floor, snoring and head flopped forward as his back pressed against the bed. Fenris lay on the floor as well, against the wall and covered in Anders’ coat. The blanket was currently occupied with Anders’ patient, a boy whose breathing picked up as he began to wake. He rose up with a gasp, panting hard with fear as he looked wildly around the room. 

Minutes later, Anders was woken with a soft prod to his shoulder. “…messere? Please wake up, Messere.” Anders blinked slowly, turning with groggy eyes to the boy. His voice was tinged with a Tevinter accent, but he was speaking Common. Anders straightened up, ignoring the ache in his back. 

“How are you feeling?” He mumbled, covering a yawn with one hand. He noticed with some level of unease that Fenris had woken sometime before him, watching them silently. The elf wouldn’t make a sound if he was stabbed, it felt like. Anders couldn’t take two steps without breaking something and waking everyone around him. 

“I…cannot say that I feel well, Messere. Alive.” Anders’ brows furrowed with sympathy. He sat on the bed, placing a slow hand on the boy’s shoulder, and rubbed slow circles when it was allowed to stay there. 

“I can’t blame you there, I’m afraid. There are a few things I need to tell you before you return home.”


	8. Old Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHOA IT'S BEEN AWHILE  
> sorry lmao here's another chapter, hopefully I'll have another one by Sunday. Thanks for all the wonderful comments!

Fenris sat in the corner of Anders’ clinic, back against the wall as he struggled to read a small storybook Anders had found him. His heart had quickened when he opened the pages, only to still in shock – he _understood_ this. Not all of it, but…the characters didn’t look like scribbles anymore. They made sense. He could, with some effort, recall each sound a letter made, though he didn’t know where the knowledge came from. 

He couldn’t imagine doing any of the things Anders had told him about, things that he had apparently already done. He’d tried to kill his former master. Spoken to his current master, a mage, in a way that would now surely earn him a severe punishment, no matter how lenient Anders appeared to be. He’d fought his own battles as a free man, and had, apparently, killed his master’s former apprentice, a woman named Hadriana. It all seemed impossible to him. 

But then…so had reading a book. Yet here he was, sounding out characters under his breath that he couldn’t recall being taught. It sent a chill through his bones. Was it possible for someone to know something they couldn’t remember being taught? 

However, he didn’t have time to ponder the feeling. The calm day turned on its head as the door was pushed slowly open, and Fenris just caught a glimpse of a young boy, barely on the edge of manhood, before he fell to the ground. Behind him, a girl a few years younger spoke frantically through sobs. “Please help him! Please!” She wouldn’t say anything else, repeating the words as though they were a prayer. The front of her shirt was splattered with blood, blood that Fenris soon realized belonged to the boy in front of her. 

Anders was always a sight during emergencies; the normally awkward, babbling mage became quick and efficient, somehow knowing exactly what to do. His voice was quick as he directed Fenris, commanding, but not harsh. “Fenris, help me get him on the bed.” Fenris promptly followed the order, setting the book he’d been reading to the side. Anders probably would have thrown it aside, but Fenris couldn’t help wanting to treat such a gift with care. Anders pulled a luminescent bottle out of his coat, brows furrowing as he chugged the bitter lyrium. He perhaps didn’t need it, Fenris thought, but he’d noticed that the mage treated lyrium like a warrior would a sip of liquor before battle. Meanwhile, Fenris lifted the boy from the ground, setting him gingerly on the cot. This seemed the most serious injury that had arrived at the clinic, so far. The boy whined and squirmed as Fenris lifted him, though he seemed barely conscious enough to register the pain. 

Anders tossed the potion to the ground, predictably, and leaned at the boy’s side. He removed the bloodstained shirt that stuck to the boy’s skin, placing his palms on his bare chest. The mage’s hands lit with a soft blue glow that never failed to make Fenris flinch, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl do the same. His stomach roiled as Anders examined the boy, a shrill cry of pain letting out of him. What could have been done to him to make him so agonized? 

At the noise, the girl burst into loud sobbing, shrieking out words that even Fenris could barely understand. Anders took a fraction of a second to glance at her, but he was too focused on his patient to do anything. “Fenris, close the door, and calm her down, please!”

Fenris vaguely registered a hiss coming from the mage as he walked to the girl, her bawling coming to an abrupt stop as he neared. She looked up at him with a terror he’d never seen directed at himself before, and he wondered what he must look like; the slave of a powerful mage, covered in lyrium tattoos. He crouched down and watched her relax slightly, wondering how he could calm a child. 

A story appeared in his head, though he didn’t know where he’d heard it before. He could barely hear a delicate voice saying the words, the accent indicating someone of Dalish origin. A pale, thin face wavered blurrily in his memory, but vanished before he could recognize it. The words of the story, however, remained in his mind. 

“Come sit with me.” He murmured to her, holding out a hand. The girl stared at him, blood smeared across one cheek from where she’d wiped her face. Then, slowly, as though she expected him to burst into flames, she took his hand. He led her to the corner of the room where he’d been reading, sitting cross-legged, and she followed suit in front of him. “Have you ever heard the tale of Fen’harel and the courser hound?” She shook her head. 

Fenris had never been a storyteller. He didn’t have the patience, or the skill. Yet the words flew out of him as though he’d rehearsed them, echoing the gentle voice in his mind. The girl stopped sniffling after a few moments, and Fenris noted the slight blue glow he could see around Anders’ back. He found himself calming as he told the story, only pausing for a slight moment when, to his surprise, the girl crawled into his lap and sat there to listen. 

Anders’ was cleaning the boy off, now, and Fenris saw him pull a pair of trousers out to dress him in. What had happened? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, but currently, he had a tale to finish. 

A few moments after the story had ended, Anders turned around, looking tired, and from more than just expending too much mana. Fenris wanted to chuckle at his clumsy Tevene, but somehow he found that nothing was very funny, right now. “Are you alright? Is this boy your brother?” His voice was gentle, soothing, and Fenris felt himself relax. How could he find a mage’s voice so calming?

The girl nodded, her reply quick, and in an accent that seemed to be beyond Anders’ comprehension of Tevene. He also noticed the slight shake of her head at Anders’ second question. He looked up questioningly, asking, “Fenris?”

“She says he was in her orphanage, but went missing a few days ago. She found him in the side alley and brought him here, since they would have let him die otherwise.” Of course he would have. Endless like him had, from the most minor injuries; where would one find a healer in the slums? Those with the talent used it for their own gain.

All except one. 

“Well, thank you for bringing him. You saved his life.” Anders replied with a smile, but his words were too choppy for the girl to understand. At the same moment, they both looked to expectantly to Fenris. He felt a little pressured under their gazes, but murmured the words in a clearer voice. 

Anders looked back at the boy, still lying on the cot they’d shared, and Fenris saw him flinch, pressing a hand to his forehead as though he’d been struck across the head. He inhaled slowly, gathering himself, but Fenris saw the shadow of pain in his eyes when he turned to face them once more. “Would you ask if she can make it home by herself? I think her friend will be well enough to return home tomorrow at noon.”

Fenris nodded, feeling rather concerned himself. But this girl had grown up in these poor streets, and she likely knew how to keep herself safe. At least, that was what he comforted himself with as he spoke the words. 

There was suspicion in her eyes as she looked back to Anders, her reply just as guarded. Fenris winced at having to translate it, but he did nonetheless. “She…wants to be sure he will be safe with a magister.” He said reluctantly. He waited for the anger that would inevitably follow, after Anders had exhausted himself to save her friend.

Anders crossed his arms with a sigh, straightening as he said, “Hm. I see.” He turned to pick up his staff, and Fenris sucked in a sharp breath despite himself. What was he going to do to her? Surely her distrust wasn’t reason to harm her!

When Anders turned back to them, the girl was tensed in Fenris’s arms, and he subconsciously tightened his grip on her. As though he could protect her, if Anders turned violent, as though he would be able to do anything more than sit there and watch. He didn’t understand. Was this the outburst he’d been waiting for? He’d almost begun to hope that the healing mage really was as kind as he pretended, as-

“Can you take care of this for me? Until tomorrow?” Anders crouched, holding the staff out, and Fenris felt his entire body still in shock. He’d seen the tender way his dominae polished the staff, often treating it with more care than he treated himself. It was clearly his treasure, the dark, ornate wood shining and smooth. And now he was offering it to a peasant who could clearly use the few silvers it would fetch. 

He mumbled the words as though he was in a haze, watching the girl’s eyes grow into saucers that likely matched his own. She tentatively reached out, her expression as though she had expected it to burn her, and let the weight settle in her hands. When Anders reached carefully out to help her up, she took his hand, only hesitating slightly. 

Fenris knew he must look a gaping fool as he saw the girl be sent off, staring in bewilderment at Anders the entire time. “You…gave her your staff, Anders?” The mage tossed the dirty water in the basin onto the street before closing the door, filling it from a large bucket and rinsing his bloody hands. 

“Loaned her my staff, actually.” 

“I…apologize if I am being disrespectful, Anders, but…” Anders shook droplets from them before taking the boy’s pulse, acting as nonchalant as though he hadn’t just given away his most valuable possession. 

“Go ahead, Fenris. Remember, you’re a free man.” 

Fenris nodded, though the words meant nothing to him. In his mind, as long as there was tie between them, the faint trails of blood magic, he belonged to Anders. “What if…she does not return?” He asked carefully. 

Anders shrugged. “Then she doesn’t. I’m sure the boy can tell us where he lives.”

That wasn’t a real answer. Fenris frowned, though it was more from utter confusion than displeasure. What kind of magister would give his staff away as though it were nothing? “But she has your staff-“

“It’s a piece of wood, Fenris.” The elf decided not to question his dominae any further. It didn’t seem as though he would get any sensible answer, and he only risked angering him. He got to his feet, watching Anders sit on the side of the cot and gaze worriedly at his patient. 

“What was done to him?” Fenris ventured to ask, though he still thought he might prefer not hearing an answer.

“I’d rather wait for when I explain it to him. Hearing is the first sense to return, after all, and this isn’t news to deliver roughly.” Fenris once again found himself bemused by the healer’s gentleness, his tone as caring as though he’d raised the boy himself. How could he ever have thought he would harm that girl? 

 

**

 

When Fenris woke, he realized Anders had covered him with his coat during the night. The bed was, of course, occupied, so they’d both slept on the floor. He sat up quietly, realizing what had woken him; the boy was sitting up on the cot, looking as though he was being hunted by darkspawn. Anders was sleeping in a rather undignified position, head flopped forwards as he leaned against the bedframe. Fenris wondered how he’d slept through the snoring. 

It was a few minutes later that the boy grew bold enough to wake Anders, though his voice was still timid. He poked Anders’ shoulder, murmuring, “…Messere? Please wake up, Messere.” His words were in Common, which Fenris found himself mildly impressed at. Not many of the poor knew it. 

Anders woke about as charmingly as he slept, eyes bleary and unfocused as he looked at the boy. “How are you feeling?” He asked, speech slurring slightly as he straightened his back. 

“I…cannot say that I feel well, Messere. Alive.” Anders seemed to fully wake, now, and his eyes crinkled with sympathy. He stood and carefully sat on the bed, rubbing gentle circles into the boy’s back. Fenris wondered what that hand would feel like running through his hair, before promptly stopping himself; this was a magister, and his dominae. There was no place for such ridiculous imaginings.

Anders’ voice was soft, though full of his normal goodwill, as though nothing was wrong in the world. “I can’t blame you there, I’m afraid. There are a few things I need to tell you before you return home.”


	9. New Person, Same Old Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Sexytimes! And...murderytimes? Cocks and murder. Have fun!  
> (Title is a reference to Tame Impala's 'New Person, Same Old Mistakes')

**This is unbecoming of us.**

_Shut the fuck up, Justice, I only have a few more minutes to enjoy this before Fenris gets back from the market._

“Fuck, fuck, right there, _yes!_ ” Anders voice filled the small cabin, a handsome young man standing behind him. His bare chest pressed against the wall, moaning delightedly as a cock slammed so far up his ass he thought he could taste it. It had been so long since he’d had release like this, and he certainly needed a stress reliever right now. It had been another month, and despite Fenris’s moment of recollection, they’d had no further progress. Though he had to admit, the elf had become more relaxed around him, and he only saw traces of the meek slave that he’d first let into his home. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking of Fenris right now. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, the cock slipping out of him as he was pulled to face his partner. He winced as his back hit the wall, but was distracted when the man – a former patient – hefted him up, wrapping Anders’ legs around his waist as he pushed back inside with gusto. Anders let out another choked noise when he felt the pressure in his belly spike, hands going around the man’s shoulders and pulling him closer. “I’m gonna…” 

A chuckle sounded, a hand moving to pump his neglected erection, while the man let out a pleased grunt of his own. His body tensed as he neared orgasm, until he threw back his head with a cry. Through the intense feeling, however, he registered a creaking sound. “Anders, this man said he knows us and-“

His head swung to face the door that Fenris now stood in, eyes wide and horrified at the same time his partner stilled and came – inside his ass. “You blighted fucking idiot, I told you not to do that!” He hissed, pushing at his chest and trying to get his feet back on the ground. He tugged at his coat, lying forgotten on the ground, to try and cover himself – only to freeze, blood chilling in his veins. 

Stepping forward from behind Fenris was a man with a scruffy black beard, warm brown eyes, and a look of shock on his face. Anders forgot his embarrassment, dropping to his knees with the coat draped over his waist. The man he’d been fucking – still fully dressed, the asshole – tucked himself back into his pants and hurriedly pushed past the two warriors in the doorway. 

Hawke. Hawke was here. In Tevinter? His eyes were large and vacant as he stared, suddenly as empty inside as when he’d first been abandoned by his lover. He noted mutely that Fenris turned to face Hawke with an achingly familiar scowl, shoving him out of the entranceway and slamming the door closed. 

Anders didn’t hear what Fenris was saying as he dropped to his knees beside him, the deep voice sounding vaguely concerned. The idea of the old Fenris, as Anders had known him, being concerned about him? That was laughable. Hawke being here? That was a nightmare. He’d effectively escaped everything that reminded him of his past, of the things he’d done, until Fenris had appeared. And now Hawke was here. Perhaps the Maker had decided he wouldn’t escape his punishment.

There was an insistent knock at the door, Fenris pulling Anders to his feet and handing him his smalls from the ground, a flush on his long, pointed ears. They always tilted downwards like that when he was embarrassed. Anders put them on in a haze, following suit with his shirt and trousers as Fenris pushed them towards him. Hawke was here. Hawke had found him. 

And, Anders realized, Hawke had abandoned Fenris. When he’d heard the news, so many years ago, he’d laughed. The memory felt like acid in his mouth. How could he ever have found such a despicable act amusing? 

He tried to focus, to get past the swirling in his head. “What…does he want?” He mumbled to Fenris, pulling his coat over his shoulders. The familiar weight and smell of slightly burnt feathers comforted him, reminding him of better times. Of his clinic in Darktown, bigger and, amazingly, happier than this hellhole that was the Tevinter slums. If only someone else could have appeared. Varric, Aveline, Isabela, even Merrill. Anyone would be better than Hawke. 

He braced himself for whatever horrible answer might come. Revenge, to take him back to Chantry officials, the Circle, to make him Tranquil like he should’ve been long ago. Instead, Fenris replied worriedly, “He simply said he wanted to see you. What is wrong? Do you know him?” Anders noticed he didn’t mention the scene they’d walked in on, his clothes uncomfortable and sticky. He was relieved. There was enough to deal with right now, with Hawke’s arrival; his private life didn’t need to be part of the chaos.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and walked to the door. Hawke’s knocking was getting more and more impatient, and as Anders yanked open the door he saw the warrior’s fist still in midair. They looked at each other as though they were strangers, and yet so much more. “Hawke.” Anders voice was guarded, defensive. 

“Anders.” Hawke said, eyes crinkling in that painfully familiar smile, and the warmth in the tone made Anders want to melt. Before he realized it, he was being embraced by those muscled arms that had always made him feel so safe, face buried in Hawke’s tunic. He closed his eyes, ignoring Justice’s swell of outrage and letting himself remember those wonderful times…even if he knew they would never be again. 

The instant passed, and he pushed back, ignoring the ache behind his eyes that threatened to turn into tears. His jaw was stiff as he asked, “What do you want?” Hawke had gained a few scars, one slicing through his left eyebrow and another across the right side of his face. Not having a healer had been hard on him. 

“I want you.” Anders chest felt like ice, hearing a noise of surprise behind him – Fenris. He’d almost forgotten about the elf, staring into Hawke’s face and finding that he remembered every detail. Unsurprising, since it was the one that haunted his dreams and even his daytime thoughts. Perhaps he was still dreaming? “I should never have made you leave, Anders, and I’m so sorry. I’ve done nothing but look for you since then.” If it wasn’t for the drying come in his smalls, he’d have definitely decided it was a dream. 

“I…” Anders couldn’t think of a reply before there was a hand on his arm, yanking him back, and Fenris shoved his face aggressively towards Hawke’s. He’d lost all trace of his meekness, nearly baring his teeth as he glared at the other warrior. 

“I will speak with my master before you continue.” Fenris all but snarled, leaving Hawke to mouth the word ‘Master’ as he shut the door yet again in the Champion’s face. Fenris turned to Anders, who simply stared at him in bewilderment, and hissed lowly, “The man is lying.” 

Justice didn’t speak, but the smugness that radiated up from him infuriated Anders. “He is not! Hawke wouldn’t…wouldn’t…” His words drifted off, but hope was already building in his chest. Hawke had returned for him…hadn’t he?

Fenris shook his head stubbornly. For once, Anders wished he was meek and quiet like he usually was. Every word felt like a knife in his chest. “I know what a liar looks like, Anders, slaves have to lie every day. That man is lying. I don’t know why, but he is.” 

Anders expression hardened, and he twisted his arm out of Fenris’s grip. “He _wouldn’t!_ ” Anders shouted, and felt something dark and guilty twist inside him at the way Fenris flinched back. He ripped the door open, looking up at Hawke resolutely. “Where are you staying?”  
“An inn in the higher city. Anders, did he say master?” Hawke stumbled over the words. 

“It’s a long story. If you want me back…let’s go.” He muttered, grabbing his coat and staff – the girl had returned it, as he’d expected – and pushing out the door past Hawke. The warrior stared at him for a moment before grinning widely, walking up to place his arm around Anders’ shoulders. He ignored the urge to lean into him and stay there forever, comforted by Hawke’s warm scent and strong, protective embrace. 

“Anders!” Fenris shouted, standing in the doorway. The conflict he felt was clear on his face, and Anders suddenly felt ripped in two. Fenris didn’t say anything more, meeting Anders’ gaze with a desperate plea in his own. 

Anders turned sharply away. Hawke wasn’t lying. He couldn’t be. He was Hawke, he and Anders had loved each other, once. And in a position where many people would have killed the mage who had destroyed the Chantry, Hawke had spared him; that had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Goodbye, Fenris. You’re strong, you’ll be fine.” Anders replied quietly, eyes fixed on the broken pavement as he tried to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Fenris was wrong. He was wrong, and Anders was going to prove it. 

 

**

 

Fenris should never have brought Hawke back. Something about the man already made him feel sick, the uncomfortably familiar tone of his voice threatening to bring back memories he sensed he didn’t want to remember. And he’d heard the evasion in his tone, saw something that wasn’t quite guilt, but knowledge in his eyes as he’d looked at the elf. He should have left him in the market. 

Instead, he’d brought him back, and now Anders was walking into what he was certain was a trap. He couldn’t concentrate, pacing inside the small shack. Even the sight of Anders… _being_ with another man wasn’t enough to distract him. The mage was his own man, after all, something Fenris was tentatively beginning to believe for himself. He’d even dared to interrupt and argue with his master…though, what had that resulted in? Anders was gone now. 

What was he to do? He couldn’t imagine that an elven slave like himself would be able to stop a powerful mage and a warrior as reputed as Hawke, from the tales he’d heard. He thought of the pain on Anders expression whenever he spoke of Hawke. He could almost say he understood it; he’d only recently begun to realize who Danarius, his former master, had been. How twisted the magister was, how dark he was. Anders, contrasting Danarius, was like a ray of sunlight through a cracked window. There was so much love in the mage’s heart, that couldn’t help but show itself through the pain that filled him. 

When Anders had first taken him in, Fenris would have done anything to return to Danarius. He would have begged on his knees, fulfilled any request, taken whatever harsh punishment he might be given so that he could feel… _loved._ A life as lonely as his, as Anders’, was so devoid of love and comfort. He would have done anything. 

And something told him Anders, too, would do anything to feel that again, even if it came from the man who had abandoned him. 

Fenris wouldn’t allow that. He felt an almost comforting bloodlust rush through him, to tear and destroy any who would dare harm the mage who had saved his life, and treated him not as a slave, but as a free man. He walked back to the open door, glancing in the direction Anders and Hawke had left. 

 

**

 

The two stood in front of an old building, on the very edges of the slums. Anders could see the shimmer of clean streets in the distance, but Hawke pulled him sharply into the building. “This isn’t an inn, Hawke.” Anders stated questioningly, looking up at Hawke with something that wanted to be trust, but wasn’t. Hawke smiled, his grip on the mage’s arm tightening.

“You know, Anders, I did love you. I did.” The clink of armor had Anders’ gaze darting sharply into the shadows of the building, a sinking feeling in his chest as the glinting armor of the Templars appeared. It had been stupid. He’d known it was. But the feeling in his chest at seeing Hawke was more than pain, more than longing, more than idiotic hope. He wanted to tear himself open and rip those emotions out of himself, make it so they were no longer a part of him. 

The mana abruptly drained out of Anders as a Templar smited him, crumpling to the floor with a gasp. Hawke ripped the staff out of his hands, examining it. “Took good care of this, didn’t you? More than yourself, fucking whoever passes by.” The staff splintered in his hands, clattering near Anders’ head. “How could I ever feel anything for you again? Not after the things you’ve done. You’re nothing but a murderer and a monster, Anders, and I only wish I had seen it sooner.” Hawke’s voice held a shadow of pain, but nothing like what Anders felt, curling into himself with every word. 

Hawke shoved him forward with his foot, and Anders felt sharp, gauntlet-covered hands dig into his shoulders and haul him up. “There. I caught you the mage that destroyed the Chantry. Think of me when you’re made Tranquil, Anders.” He tossed over his shoulder, disgust clear in his tone. 

Anders eyes were closed, the fight gone from him, and a collar clapped around his neck just as Justice roared to defend them both. The spirit fought and screamed inside him, like daggers raking his insides, but there was nothing either of them could do. 

A choked sound came from the doorway, and Anders blinked slowly at the blinding light that shone there. Fenris shook a bloodied hand, the light of his markings coming into full view as Hawke, gaze turned to look at Anders, fell to the ground. 

Anders was dropped roughly as Fenris leapt forward, his familiar battle cry sounding throughout the dust and damp of the building. There were perhaps four Templars. In the old days, that would have been nothing for Fenris. Nothing, when he was decked in full armor and holding a weighty sword. 

Now he was scrabbling for a hold, lyrium flashing as he ducked and screamed forward, fury in his tone. One Templar dropped. Fenris gained a gash across his right thigh. Another fell and writhed, hands over the untouched breastplate of his armor – Fenris had likely crushed an internal organ, not something so vital as a heart, but still enough to kill. He snarled in agony when a sword stabbed through his shoulder, lunging forward to wrap his hands around the offender’s throat. 

Another Templar approached behind him, sword raising for a killing blow. Anders searched the ground, trembling hands finding the jagged, broken staff that had been tossed aside. He stumbled to his feet, and with a throaty yell of his own, threw his weight forward, the splintered end of the staff driving into the side of the Templar’s neck, in the gap between his helmet and shoulder plates. 

Blood spurted onto his face as he yanked the staff away, the man clutching his neck with a shocked gurgle as he collapsed. The man Fenris was currently strangling jerked, scrabbled at the unnaturally strong hands crushing his windpipe, and finally went still. 

Anders hadn’t experienced violence like this in years. He fell back to his knees, panting as he held the bloodied piece of wood close to himself, body wracking with a flow of tears that was finally allowed to come. Hawke was dead. Hawke had betrayed him again, hated him to his death, and now he was dead. 

Fenris stood, panting, and dropped to one knee beside Anders. “Are you alright, Anders?” He murmured, and his deep, accented voice was a balm to the mage’s agony. His eyes were shut tightly, face still turned downwards, and he flinched when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. 

He looked at Fenris through his own blurry vision, the concern in those huge, jade-green eyes making a swell of emotion rise in his chest. What had he done to deserve that? He’d abandoned Fenris in a desperate, stupid attempt to regain love he already knew was gone. “I’m sorry.” He sobbed, looking down; he couldn’t stand to look at Fenris, and feel his own shame. 

The arms that wrapped tentatively around him were different than Hawke’s, thinner, and not as encompassing. Fenris smelled like sweat and blood, and his shirt was stained with both, but Anders leaned into the embrace all the same. “I would have done the same, Anders. Do not apologize.” 

Anders didn’t know how long they sat there, tears streaking his face as he buried it in Fenris’s chest, the piece of wood that had once been a powerful weapon still clutched to himself. The memories of the past seemed so golden, a haze of love and happiness. But now he lay in blood and offal, more broken than he’d thought he could be. 

But, he realized, a comforting hum rumbling in Fenris’s throat…he was not alone. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no fucking clue wheTHER THAT WAS GOOD OR NOT BUT THERE YOU GO THERE IT IS THIS HAS TO BE THE MOST DRAMATIC THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN (don't be fooled I really do love Hawke but I was writing and this just...happened)


	10. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders didn't tell Fenris _everything..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So I'm just gonna stop saying I'll update reliably because, as predicted by everyone but me, I'm a procrastinating piece of shit that had too much to do already. Thanks so much, and sorry for taking so long!

After perhaps twenty minutes of sitting with Anders in the abandoned building, Fenris realized staying here was asking for trouble. Emerging covered in blood would be suspicious, but if they took quiet streets and didn’t make a show of themselves, they should be able to make it to the shack well enough. 

He moved back, chest tight at the look Anders gave him – longing, and so afraid, like he thought Fenris would abandon him here. “Come. We need to leave.” Anders nodded slowly, getting to his feet almost mechanically. Fenris thought of the pain of being thrown away by Danarius; admittedly, he’d put on a better face than Anders had, but then, the mage had never had to hide his emotions. He could afford to wear them on his sleeve. 

He grimaced at the pain of his wounds when he stood, but none of them were debilitating. Together, they left the building, Anders dropping the piece of staff he’d been clutching to his chest. Fenris spared the man Hawke’s corpse a glance, resisting the urge to spit on it.

When they reached the shack, a man was sitting outside, standing up the moment he saw them. “Healer! I have a- sweet Andraste, healer, what happened to you?” He asked, shock clear on his face. Fenris motioned for Anders to continue on, ignoring when the mage opened his mouth to protest. 

“Will you die if you do not receive healing within two days?” Fenris asked gruffly, Anders sighing and moving on. The man mutely shook his head. “Then wait. Anders is unwell. Tell any others, if possible.” 

The man nodded. “He’s a good man. I’ll let everyone know.” He said, and Fenris murmured his thanks before following Anders in. He was sitting on the cot, staring at the ground. Fenris closed the door, hoping they would have no emergencies. 

“Hold still.” Fenris said quietly, and his brandings came to life. He reached forward, carefully fidgeting with the lock on the collar still braced around Anders’ neck.  
Anders’ eyes widened with some sudden realization, hand darting up to stop Fenris. “Wait-!” He was too late, and the lock clicked open, the collar landing on the ground with a heavy thud. 

**”I WILL HAVE JUSTICE!”** Anders leapt to his feet with an angered roar, knocking Fenris to the ground with unnatural strength. His eyes were alight, body surrounded with blue flame. Fenris was pale, eyes wide with horror. An abomination? Had Anders been so damaged that he gave in to the temptations of demons? 

He got quickly to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. “Anders!” He said sharply, fear paralyzing him. He had seen abominations before. Killed them, in some of the ‘games’ Danarius enjoyed. 

None of those abominations had been Anders. 

The abomination turned to look at him, eyes enraged and powerful. Slowly, his expression calmed, though a deep anger remained in his tone and face. **”You are the elf. You are just."** With that, the light faded, and Anders abruptly slumped to the ground, gasping for breath. 

Fenris was paralyzed, fear and bewilderment writhing within him. He waited, wary, for Anders to act. 

The first thing the mage did was look up, terror in his eyes, and go limp with relief when he saw Fenris standing in front of him. “Oh, thank Andraste, you’re alright! Fenris, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you-“

“Tell me?” Fenris heard his snarling tone, torn. This mean Anders was already an abomination, and yet…Anders hadn’t harmed him. He hadn’t been filled with the blind violence that other abominations were. Rage, yes, but controlled, if only just. He forced himself to speak more calmly, remembering the pain Anders had already suffered today. He had explaining to do, but Fenris would stay to listen. Anders was his master, or at least a friend; he owed him that much. “Anders, you are an abomination.”

Anders got shakily to his feet, kicking the collar aside. He looked so overwhelmed, Fenris would have embraced him again, if not for what he’d just seen. “Yes. But not by a demon; a spirit of Justice. It happened many years ago.” Glancing up at Fenris, he paused. “Can I heal you? I think I have enough strength left in me.”

Anders had healed him several times, and Fenris decided to oblige him – the wounds in his shoulder and leg were doing nothing helpful, after all. They sat beside each other on the cot, and Fenris listened to Anders’ story. His hands hovered and glowed over the injuries, voice quiet and trembling. 

An escaped slave and an abomination. Fenris wondered if perhaps he was in the Fade; such a pair was surely the oddest thing in Thedas. 

 

**

 

The people of the Tevinter slums were very concerned for their healer, he’d admit. They found piles of food and blankets outside of the shack in the mornings, along with friendly notes in clumsy handwriting, wishing Anders well. 

Naturally, Anders took in patients far too soon for Fenris’s liking. The elf would have waited a week, perhaps two, at the very least; it wasn’t a full two days before he returned from the market and found a patient lying on the cot. Within a month, things were back to normal. Or at least, their average, but bizarre lifestyle. 

“No, Fenris, I am not going to shut my clinic at nightfall! What if they work until then?” Anders said, mopping up blood that had splattered onto the floor. 

Fenris closed the door behind him, sighing. An argument the moment he returned; lovely. Perhaps he hadn’t chosen the best topic upon entering. “Anders, you are more helpful when you’re rested. If it is necessary, they will enter.” He set the elfroot he’d gathered against the wall, in the basin they used to make poultices and potions. Something similar to excitement build in his chest, nervous at what he’d brought; it was nowhere near as quality as the last one, after all.

Anders sat up, dumping the dirty cloth on the floor and reaching back to retie his hair. “I’m more helpful when I’m available.” He finished tying up his hair, wiping his hands inconspicuously on his coat as he stood. “Fenris, you-“ His words stopped abruptly, eyes wide as he took in what Fenris held.

“The last one was broken. I thought perhaps…” Fenris trailed off, watching Anders’ face carefully. For all his experience reading the emotions of humans, he could never predict the mage’s reactions. Perhaps because he expected the worst, and rarely got it. 

“Fenris…” Anders stepped forward, gingerly taking the worn, scratched staff from Fenris’s hands. It was crudely made, light brown and not even attempting at decoration. Fenris had seen it at the market, sold at an eight of the price of those in the upper district. 

“Yes?” The elf swallowed. He knew nothing of mage weapons, though Anders had said his innate knowledge of blades was likely due to his past as an escaped slave. He could tell this one wasn’t exactly quality, but his options were limited. 

“I love it. Thank you, so, so much.” Anders had tears in his eyes as he looked back up, and Fenris blinked when he leaned forward, distracted by the happiness rising in his chest. Stubble scratched his chin, warm lips pressing against his own in a kiss. 

Life as a favored slave was interesting. He had been with Danarius many times, but it had only ever brought pain and humiliation, never intimacy or pleasure. One thing Danarius had never done, for instance, was kiss him. 

He felt Anders slow, begin to pull back. Seeing as Fenris hadn’t moved since their lips met, it wasn’t surprising. Fenris took a moment to realize, and another to try and decipher his swirling thoughts enough to decide what to do. And then he felt his arms wrapping around Anders’ torso, pulling him closer, ears warm and tilted back as he kissed back. Clumsy, since it was his first. But in all his life, he thought he'd never felt anything more wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) Thought I'd give everyone some fluff, considering how horribly the last chapter ended...wrote this at 3 AM and didn't edit cause I'm fuckin EXHAUSTED from finals, so lemme know if you find any mistakes. Thanks for reading!


	11. Misunderstandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI THERE it's been....awhile, but I've been rereading my junk and I really need to start writing again. I will make no promises, because that is a notoriously bad idea, but...here, have a lil' something I tapped out thank you guys for being so supportive through all the continuity errors and weird plot jumps ( :D and get ready for more!)

Fenris had never expected this. He’d never thought that he could become something more than a slave, and that, almost more frighteningly, he could intimidate a mage that he had, until recently, considered his master. 

And yet he was. He knew it, because ever since that kiss so many weeks ago, Anders hadn’t come within more than two feet of him. If he stepped close, the mage would quickly move away, often mumbling that there was some activity that suddenly required his immediate attention. It left Fenris entirely bemused, every time – Anders had not been so concerned about personal space up until this moment. In fact, he’d finally bought the mat he’d said he was planning to since Fenris first arrived. Though of course Fenris had utterly refused Anders’ insistences that the mage should sleep on the mat, he suggested a compromise – they alternated nights. Fenris was not as careful as he had been at first, but he still could not find it in him to take Anders’ bed. On the first nights he’d slept there, he had felt distinctly uneasy, though that had faded. 

However, Anders’ strange behavior was not what troubled him most. Since Fenris had gotten Anders his staff, the mage had not kissed him again. 

He couldn’t understand why – had he done something wrong? Perhaps Anders did not want him, and had only acted out of impulse. Fenris was not the most attractive man, or at least, by his own standards he wasn’t. Anders had called him ‘broody’ on several occasions, and he had to admit that he wore a scowl or a blank expression more often than a smile. He was covered in lyrium tattoos, which didn’t help his intimidating appearance, nor did his shock-white hair. He was growing to dislike those tattoos, and if it wasn’t for their usefulness in saving Anders from the Templars, he would have hated them. 

But perhaps those thoughts could be saved for a more relevant time. At the moment, he watched Anders as he crouched by the cot, gentle blue light flowing from his hand to soothe the pain of a woman who was very likely going to give birth soon – at least, Fenris hoped so. She’d been in their clinic – when had it become ‘their’ clinic, he wondered? - for nearly ten hours, and by now she and Anders were both utterly exhausted, her from the pain and him from trying to lessen it. At the moment, she was squeezing the healer’s hand hard enough that Fenris worried she just might have broken it, until the tension finally lifted. 

Beyond Anders’ crouched form came a startling sound – the screech of a newborn baby, enraged at the world and the discomfort it was being put through. Anders smiled, gathering the blanket that had been waiting uselessly on the bed for so many hours and wrapping the child, who was still bellowing its lungs out. He did something, and then handed the baby to its gasping mother. “A little girl.” He said warmly. 

Fenris wondered how he ever could have been afraid of the mage. 

The woman’s sister came around an hour later to help her home – the child had no present father – and Anders washed the soiled bedclothes while Fenris went about replacing the straw in the mattress. They worked in silence, until Fenris gathered up the bravery – not nearly as difficult as it had once been – to ask a question.   
“Have I done something wrong, Anders?” 

Anders paused as he registered what Fenris had asked, and then turned to the elf, a look of concerned surprise on his face. “No, Fenris, of course not. What made you think that?”  
Fenris paused, shifting his weight. “You have been…acting strangely. Since we…kissed.” The word sounded strange when he spoke it; after all, he had never been kissed until that moment. Kissing was something reserved for those that were their own men, not slaves. And yet, he was finding more and more that he no longer felt like a slave, as frightening as that was. Perhaps it was Anders constantly reminding him that he was not Fenris’s master. 

Anders was a vivid shade of red, which was gratifying. Embarrassment on the mage’s part would make Fenris feel less obvious about his own. Still, this issue was bothering him, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. So much time spent with Anders had taught him that speaking up rarely, if ever, ended with any sort of pain. Quite different to living with Danarius, but then, the only trait Anders and Danarius shared was their magical ability, and even that went to vastly different purposes. 

As Anders struggled for words, Fenris ever so slightly furrowed his brows, looking to the side for a few seconds. “If…you do not wish to answer, I will not be upset.” Clearly Anders did not want to pursue any kind of further relationship with him – he didn’t know why he was so upset. No matter how kind the mage was, Fenris was still nothing in comparison. Perhaps Anders’ kindness had made him forget that. 

“No!” 

**

“No!”

Fenris jerked, looking up at him with surprise, and Anders could have wailed with frustration. What he was trying to say was so unbelievably awkward, and it went against all his assurances that Fenris was indeed a free man – because this was not something one would have to worry about with a free man. 

When Fenris had seemed to break through the enchantment placed on him – sweet Andraste, that felt like such a long time ago – Anders had grabbed him in desperation. He could still see the moment that confusion had turned to terror, as Fenris forgot himself once again and seemed almost as though he’d woken from sleep – with Anders gripping his shoulders, leaning over him with what Anders could only imagine had been a wild expression. Though he hadn’t said anything, Fenris had clearly been scared out of his wits, and that was something Anders never wanted to cause again. Especially when he knew the reason why. 

He’d laid in bed the night after they’d kissed, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Fenris had kissed him back, much to his relief, but – had it been real? He hadn’t seemed upset, and Anders was getting quite good at being able to tell when he was upset, but…it was always so difficult to know for sure. A kiss, or anything else, for that matter, was not something he wanted to force on someone. And if Fenris still felt at all like he had when he’d first arrived, initiating anything with him could result in just that. He didn’t want to risk it.

So, he’d avoided getting to close to him. Kept a decent personal distance, gotten a mat to sleep on – though that damned elf was stubborn no matter how much he remembered, insisting that he wouldn’t just take the bed and let Anders sleep on the cot. He’d been doing fairly well, he thought, though he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep it up.   
And now, this! He had no idea how to answer the question Fenris had just asked, and yet the elf looked so obviously saddened when he didn’t speak that he knew he had to say something, anything to assure Fenris it wasn’t his fault. 

“I…just thought you would like your personal space, that’s all.” He said, shrugging, but faltered when Fenris didn’t look any less disappointed. Anders sighed, running a hand through his hair – which was markedly less oily, now that Fenris was around and he was encouraged to bathe more often. “Look, I…didn’t want you to feel as if you had to do anything you didn’t want to. I know what…what masters in Tevinter do to their slaves, and who can tell if you really think of me as that or if you’re just saying you don’t so that I don’t worry, and-“

“That’s it?” Fenris interrupted, and Anders looked up to see him staring with those damnably large eyes. 

**

“That’s it?”

Anders had been…concerned for him? Fenris should have expected as much, but he still found the mage frustratingly difficult to read. He felt some of the disappointment that had filled him dissipating, replaced with a timid hope. “So you…did enjoy it. The kiss.” He asked, hoping the warmth on his face didn’t show too obviously at asking such a brazen question. 

Anders seemed a bit confused, which was a bit irritating. “I mean…of course I did?” He said, frowning slightly. “I kissed you, after all, which I really…shouldn’t have, because-“ He stopped short as Fenris, nervous energy buzzing in every inch of him, lowered on one knee to be face-to-face with Anders where he sat. 

This was the second time Fenris had experienced a kiss, and the first time he’d initiated one. He could feel a slight tremble run through Anders as he slid his hand onto the nape of the mage’s neck, leaning forward in a slow, smooth motion. He was in the odd position of being above Anders, who sat on a short stool, and while it was strange to look down at the mage, it was rather nice. 

His lips gently met Anders’ own, and the mage closed his eyes, hesitantly leaning forward. How strange. He was making Anders – a mage, his master – nervous. Fenris’s other hand moved to rest gently on Anders’ chest, where he could feel the quick pulse of his heartbeat. Anders still clutched a sheet that he’d been scrubbing, but as Fenris deepened the kiss in his own inexperienced way he moaned, releasing it to reach up and thread his wet hands into Fenris’s hair. 

When Fenris leaned back, his hair was mussed, Anders was even more red-faced than he had been at first, and they were both breathing heavily. They both sat in silence for a moment, waiting uncomfortably for the other to say something, before Anders finally spoke. 

“So…I take it you don’t mind me kissing you, then?”


End file.
